Red Letter Day
by Lindenharp
Summary: An unusual case calls for Hathaway and Lewis to play very different roles. James & Robbie friendship. Rating is for some coarse language. (formatting problem in Chapter 1 has been fixed)
1. Chapter 1

James is standing in a queue at Pret when his mobile rings. He's spent most of his lunch break on personal errands, and now has just enough time left to get a sandwich and a coffee to take back to the nick. Only this particular ringtone means a text from his governor. He glances at the screen, curses under his breath, and steps out of the queue. He's to meet Lewis in the Chief Super's office, ASAP.

As he strides down the pavement, his mind is busy with the puzzle of this unexpected summons. He doesn't think they've done anything recently that merits a bollocking. Their last case was a straightforward murder that did not involve the University or any of Oxford's elite. A new case? They shouldn't be due for one yet. Jake Husselbee was only arrested yesterday, and they've barely started on the follow-up interviews, let alone the paperwork.

Increasing his pace, he crosses Cornmarket, and is nearly run over by a cyclist riding illegally in the pedestrian zone. When he arrives at the nick, he takes a moment to compose himself. Whatever this is about, it won't be good for him to be snappish and out of sorts in a meeting with his governor and the Chief Super.

Innocent's admin waves him into her office. There's a man in one of the visitor chairs: clearly a copper, but one he doesn't recognise. Sharp suit, Italian shoes. Narrow face, piercing grey eyes that latch onto James as soon as he enters. _Curiouser and curiouser_. James greets Lewis with a respectful nod, then turns his attention to Innocent. "Ma'am?"

"Sergeant Hathaway." Innocent sounds relieved to see him, so it's most likely not a bollocking. "This is Detective Chief Inspector Archie Sutton from the Met. He's requested our assistance with a case involving multiple jurisdictions, now including Oxford."

Multiple jurisdictions? Have they got a serial killer here? James's mind is spinning as he seats himself in the vacant chair beside Lewis.

"I'm with the Art and Antiques Unit of the Met," Sutton begins. Art theft isn't usually associated with violence, so what does the Met want with a couple of murder detectives? "For the past 18 months, we've been tracking a seller of stolen antiquities. We haven't been able to determine if he is also the thief or if he's fronting for someone else."

In a roomful of senior officers, James hesitates to speak up, but as usual, Lewis's thoughts run parallel to his. "What sort of antiquities might those be?"

"They vary. A bronze French Empire mantel clock, woodblock prints from the Katsukawa school, a William III gold guinea, a 17th century astrolabe..." Sutton shrugs. "Something new every time. He approaches his buyers online, using some pretty sophisticated tricks to hide his tracks, or so the lads in computer forensics tell me."

"How does he identify potential buyers?" Innocent asks.

"We think he finds them on Internet forums for serious collectors. Most of the buyers we've spoken to are members of at least one. The descriptions of the suspect are different enough to each other that he must be using disguises. Facial hair, hair colour, even a tattoo on his neck once. He uses a new cover name for each sale, so we've taken to calling him the Fox."

"Sounds like a slick customer," Lewis says. "You've set traps for him, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes. He took the bait twice, but both times he scarpered at the last minute. Seems like he can smell a copper from a mile off. Now we've got him biting again. He asked for a meet tomorrow here in Oxford, though he hasn't revealed the location yet. We've got an officer with just the right background—public school, read art history at Cambridge, and best of all, he was a librarian before he joined the Met. This time, the stolen goods on offer are incunabula." Sutton pauses, a slight smile on his lips as he eyes Lewis.

_Oh no, you don't._ Before Lewis has to ask, James speaks up. "Early printed books produced prior to 1501. The term comes from the Latin word for cradle, because they are exemplars from the infancy of printing."

Lewis nods, unsurprised by his bagman's knowledge. Innocent looks pleased. Sutton is hard to read, but there's a hint of calculation in that shuttered face. The DCI reaches into his briefcase and retrieves a sheet of paper. "Sergeant Hathaway, would you please read this aloud?"

James looks at Innocent, who signals for him to go ahead. He looks at the paper. It's a printout from an online facsimile of a Latin incunable. The language is simple, especially compared to Augustine's _De civitate dei_. He clears his throat. "Quae se laudari gaudent verbis subdolis, serae dant poenas turpi paenitentia. Cum de fenestra corvus— It's Aesop. The fable of the fox and the raven. Erm... ma'am?"

Innocent hears the question he can't openly ask. "As I said, James, DCI Sutton needs our assistance with his case. The meeting is scheduled for tomorrow, and his officer has suddenly become... unavailable."

Sutton reddens. "He's got chickenpox, of all the bloody ridiculous things. Months of planning gone down the drain because Tom Winthorpe has gone spotty."

James takes a fleeting moment to feel pity for spotty Winthorpe, but only a moment, because he can see where this is going.

Lewis asks, "You can't stand in for him? Or another detective? I'd think a specialist unit like yours would have enough Oxbridge graduates in it to choke a horse."

"Not as many as you'd think. We rely on civilian consultants for a lot of the research aspects of the job. And the thing is, we've created a very specific persona for this meeting, all based on Winthorpe's background. We know from interviewing other buyers that the Fox is a chatty fellow. Likes to ask about the buyer's school, university, hobbies."

"Checking their bona fides."

"Exactly. There are plenty of officers in the Met and other services who are Cambridge graduates. When we narrow it down to the ones who are of the right age and can read Greek and Latin, it's a very short list. Five." He counts down the candidates and their disqualifications on the fingers on his right hand. "On holiday in New Zealand. Female. Heavy Welsh accent. And... not posh enough for the role."

"And what is that role?" candidate number five asks cautiously.

"Sir Edward Latham, Baronet."

_Christ!_ Now he knows why Sutton has been giving him that cool, appraising stare. Pride wars with fear inside him. If he takes this on and blows it... what then? Innocent won't blame him; Lewis certainly won't. He'll just feel like a failure. No, he can't refuse. There's no one else who can take this on. If he bows out and they have to cancel the meeting, the Fox will be even more suspicious the next time—if there is a next time. James inhales, summoning the cocky mental armour of Wolfgang Christ, Head Boy. "Very well, Inspector. Shall we get started?"

Sutton looks pleased. "Right. Chief Superintendent Innocent has kindly given me an office to work in, so—"

"So we might as well go down to my office, since I'll be accompanying him," Lewis says.

"Hang on—you can't just insert yourself in my operation, willy-nilly!"

"You can't just commandeer my sergeant, and expect me to—"

"Gentlemen." Innocent raises her voice just enough to be heard. "Since Sergeant Hathaway is going to be the man on the spot, perhaps we should find out what he thinks. Sergeant?"

Another, deeper breath. James adopts the supercilious tone of the most annoying boy in the sixth form. "Naturally, Lewis will be driving me."

"So I'm your chauffeur, am I?" His governor sounds amused.

"Chauffeur, factotum, gardener..." James leans forward and murmurs to Sutton, "A bit rough around the edges, but utterly dependable."

Lewis snorts. Innocent coughs behind her hand. Sutton seems torn between amusement and indignation. "Very well, Sir Edward. Certainly, I wouldn't want to deprive you of your right hand man."

* * *

James sits at his desk, bent over the computer. Sutton has given him access to Winthorpe's account so he can read all the emails between Winthorpe and 'Hugo Challoner' (the Fox's current alias). He pays particular attention to the wording of Winthorpe's messages, to get a feeling for his use of language. It's not too different to his own.

Sutton hands him a thick stack of printouts: background information on incunabula from a collector's point of view. "Winthorpe highlighted the bits that you really should know. Just... swot up as much as you can, yeah?"

James is ready to snap out a retort to this slur on his academic abilities. He looks up at Sutton, and swallows his words. Sutton's jaw is tight, his forehead creased. "Not to worry, sir. I did a minor course in swotting at Cambridge."

As he turns his attention to the printouts, he hears Lewis murmur, "C'mon, Sutton. Let's leave him to swot in peace."

There's a glossary at the top of the stack. Some of the terms are familiar to him: quire and quarto, colophon and codex. One of his theology lecturers at Cambridge thought it was good for his students to appreciate what reading and study were like for pre-modern scholars, and assigned some of the course readings as printouts of illuminated manuscripts and incunabula. James admires the craftsmanship of the scribes and printers who believed that to beautify the words on the page was to glorify God. Still, he's always been more interested in the contents of books than their physical form.

There are photos of pages from incunabula in library collections all over Europe. Many of the book titles are in German, and James is pleased to discover that he can make out most of them. His trip to Berlin two years ago had left him feeling ignorant and frustrated; shortly after the case was over, he'd found an online course in basic German. His accent is a bit rubbish, though it's better than his recent attempts at conversational Mandarin.

_Die vierundzwanzig goldenen Harfen_. The Twenty-Four Golden Harps. _Dialogus linguae et ventris_. Dialogue of the Tongue and Stomach. _Die Ordnung der Gesundheit_. The Rule of Health. _Infantia Salvatoris_. The Infancy of our Saviour. Places and dates, names of printers, and technical details of printing presses. Mainz, Subiaco, Strassburg. Gutenberg, 1455; Mentelin, 1460; Sweynheym, 1465. Punch, matrix, platen. Tympan, coffin, frisket. After an hour of this, the words begin to dance and blur. He rubs his eyes.

Naturally, Lewis and Sutton choose that moment to return. "How's it going, Sergeant Hathaway?"

"Sirs... I'm sorry, but I need to take a short break. I didn't eat lunch today."

"We'll have something brought up," Sutton says promptly.

"No, he should go down to the canteen," Lewis says firmly. "He'll work all the better for taking a few minutes."

James rolls his shoulders and arches his back before rising. "I won't be long." There's not much to choose from in the canteen, but in his current state, a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee are ambrosia and nectar. He takes ten full minutes to drink the coffee slowly, then buys a second cup to bring up to the office.

The door is ajar, and voices flow out into the corridor. "You really think he can learn enough of it by tomorrow afternoon?"

James freezes. This isn't a conversation he wants to walk into.

"I know it." Lewis's Geordie accent is more pronounced than usual; a sure sign that he's annoyed. "When you were looking up coppers who graduated from Cambridge, did you happen to notice that Hathaway took a starred First? They don't give those out to just anyone."

James's brows shoot up. He hadn't realised that Lewis knew that about him. He certainly never told Lewis, though naturally his governor has access to his personnel file.

"In theology. You think the Fox is going to ask him questions about the Pearly Gates?"

"Doesn't matter if he read theology or botany. Point is, he's used to learning a lot of complicated stuff quickly. An' he's done it on the job, too."

"That's all well and good, but the real test will be passing himself off as a baronet."

Lewis laughs. "Don't be ridiculous, man. Hathaway went to a posh school. You've heard him talk. He can out-nob any nob. I've seen him do it more than once, smooth as a cat in cream." James holds his breath, but of course Lewis doesn't mention Crevecoeur. He's discreet, and keeps secrets without being asked.

"That's as may be," Sutton grumbles, "but it's not me he's got to convince, it's the Fox."

If you think so little of me, why did you ask me to play the role? James knows the answer: because Sutton has no better alternative. He doesn't much care what Sutton thinks of him, but he dreads disappointing Lewis.

The two inspectors fall silent. James retreats a few metres down the corridor, and then returns, walking briskly. As he enters the office, Lewis smiles. Sutton nods. "Sergeant Hathaway, leave off the reading for a while longer. I'd like to discuss the objectives and tactics for tomorrow's operation."

James bobs his head and seats himself at his desk.

Sutton begins his instruction with an overview of the laws concerning entrapment. He outlines different possible scenarios, and what James should say and do in each case. He writes the most important points on a whiteboard. James has to admit that Sutton knows what he's doing. He's annoying, but he's a good detective, and he knows the ins and outs of his specialty.

Lewis insists on ending the day at a normal hour. "You won't be at your best tomorrow if you wear yourself out reading and fretting. No, leave those here," he directs as James reaches for the stack of paperwork. "We'll see you in the morning," he says to Sutton.

Lewis drives James home, stopping en route for a Chinese takeaway. Fried wontons, Kung Po chicken, and a bottle of Tsingtao beer do a lot to relax him. A conversation about everything except work does even more. Lewis bids him good night after the News at Ten. "I'll pick you up at half-seven." He pauses. "Sleep well." It's more than a wish and less than an order.

"Good night, sir."

James sleeps, though not well. He dreams of books: huge books, large enough to crush him if they fall, bound in blood-red leather. The books open to reveal images hand-drawn in the margins of the printed pages. Drolleries and grotesques come to life and go skipping off the paper. There's a nun riding side-saddle on a mouse, and an archer jumping out of a flower bud to shoot at a bird-headed monkey. Demonic snails slither off the page. A fox with a flaming tail runs across the ceiling, only it's not a tail, it's a red silk banner embroidered in gold with one word: _Versager_. Failure.

_You don't get away that easily!_ James springs up and pursues the fox around the room until it runs in front of one of the giant books. He grasps the cover with both hands and slams it shut, trapping the fox inside. _Gotcha!_ There's an old-fashioned wire cage in his hand, about the size of a cat carrier. Cautiously, he opens the book again, ready to grab his prey.

The fox isn't there. The page is blank. Completely blank. No text, no drawings. Nothing. He turns to the next page. Blank. The next. Blank. Frantically, he flips pages faster and faster. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blankblank. Blankblankblankblank...

On the final page, a woodblock print of an elderly man gazes out at James. He's wearing a pointy hat trimmed with fur, and a pleated jacket with split oversleeves and a fur collar. His left hand holds a piece of movable type; his right hand strokes a long, narrow, two-stranded beard that comes down to mid-chest. James recognises the man from his study materials: Johannes Gutenberg.

Gutenberg opens his mouth to speak, and his words appear in a heavy Gothic font marching across the page. **"Der Fuchs ist entfleucht!"** _The fox has escaped!_

James clenches his fists. "Oh, _that's_ helpful."

**"Gehabt Euch wohl,"** Gutenberg replies. _Fare thee well_. His image on the page contracts into a shapeless blob of ink, growing smaller and smaller until it vanishes entirely.

* * *

The alarm rings all too soon. James dresses quickly and is waiting on the pavement when Lewis arrives. They say very little. Lewis pulls into a cafe on the way to the nick, and waits while James dashes in to get two coffees and a couple of croissants.

A minute after they arrive in the office, Sutton walks in without knocking. He nods at each of them in turn. "Lewis, Hathaway. Morning."

"Good morning, Inspector. What happens next?"

"If the Fox holds to pattern, he'll email us about the meeting place at the last minute. He'll have been there for at least an hour, so any attempts to insert plainclothes officers will be nearly impossible." Sutton glances at his watch. "Since he indicated an afternoon meeting, we've some time yet. Let me show you the car so you can familiarise yourselves with it."

Down in the car park, James can immediately spot where 'his' car must be by the crowd of junior officers clustered around it like bees swarming a slice of ripe melon. Sutton is frowning, though none of the officers are touching the vehicle, which James can now see is a brand new sporty Jaguar. It's metallic blue, and the registration plate indicates that it's from Berkshire, Sir Edward's county of residence. "Very nice."

Lewis raises his voice. "All right, lads. Showtime's over. Clear off." The coppers do as they're told, though some of them walk slowly, with wistful glances over their shoulders.

Sutton turns to Lewis. "Let's kill two birds with one stone. The clothing for you two is in my hotel room, and you should get some practice in driving this beast. I imagine it handles differently to what you're used to."

"I owned a Jag once," Lewis replies. "A Mark 2. Didn't have all of these electronic gadgets, just a radio and a tape player."

"Used to _own_ a Jag?" Sutton repeats.

Lewis settles himself in the driver's seat. "Yeah, but I sold it, years ago. Wanted the money for me kids' educations." He beckons to James. "Hathaway, sit in the front and tell me what all the digital thingummies are."

James does as he's bid. He shows Lewis the essentials controls and displays. "In the unlikely event that Challoner gets into this car, I'll explain that I have a Luddite for a driver."

"Smartarse," Lewis grumbles. "Sutton, where are we going?"

"Hotel Royale. It's—"

"I know it."

The Hotel Royale doesn't entirely live up to its name. James imagines that the Met's travel budget doesn't cover the Randolph or the Royal Oxford. Still, the Royale is pleasant enough, and it has a private car park. Sutton leads them up to his room. He gestures at two garment bags and a small rolling suitcase. "Gentlemen, your clothing is here." James finds an elegant pewter grey suit from a Hong Kong tailor, a crisp white shirt from Howard's of Paris, and an Italian silk tie. The gleaming shoes are also Italian. Clearly, 'buy British' is not Sir Edward's motto. Once he's fully dressed, James is presented with a Baume-et-Mercier wristwatch that must be worth a couple of thousand pounds.

Sutton correctly interprets James's frown. "Not to worry, Sergeant. The watch is a fake. Customs seized a crate of them last month."

"And the Fox won't notice?"

Sutton shrugs. "He'll think you're rich or gullible or both. It's a win-win situation." He hands James a sleek smartphone that's been programmed with the email account for Sir Edward.

Lewis comes out of the loo, looking uncomfortable in a perfectly-fitting brown tweed suit. It's off-the-rack from some expensive department store. Paired with a cream-coloured shirt and a dark brown tie, he appears both respectable and forgettable. He looks James up and down, and grins. "Well, now. You look posh enough for the entire House of Lords."

James shakes his head. _Too_ posh for the House of Lords is closer to the truth. He's seen enough British peers—at a distance—at school and university to know that, on non-formal occasions, most of them prefer clothing that's comfortable and understated. Sir Edward's attire would be judged pretentious in the exclusive gentlemen's clubs in London where the peers of the realm gather. "And you look very... appropriate, sir."

"I'm just happy not to be in one of those daft chauffeur's uniforms with the cap and all. Reckon I'd feel like a doorman at a fancy hotel." Lewis pulls a face.

Time passes slowly. James re-reads the list of stolen books that he may be offered today. He and Lewis practice their hand signals. Sutton unbends enough to talk about some of the more interesting cases he's worked, and Lewis returns the favour. Room service brings up tea and sandwiches.

At 12:17, James's smartphone begins to play Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor. "That's the ringtone for incoming email," Sutton says.

James snatches up the phone and taps the email icon. He reads the message aloud. "Please join me for drinks at the Silver Swan. Send photo first. Come alone. HC." He fumbles with the unfamiliar phone, searching for the camera controls, and snaps several pictures of himself.

Lewis is explaining the Silver Swan to Sutton. It's a fancy pub, right by the river, with a large beer garden. "Very popular because of the view. It'd be almost impossible to sneak up on someone there." He looks over his shoulder at James. "Get a move on, will you?"

"Sorry, sir. Just deciding which photo to send."

Sutton turns. "This isn't Internet dating. Challoner won't care if you're smiling or not."

It's not that, James wants to say. He doesn't care if he looks good in the photo (he never does). It may be foolish, even superstitious, but he can't help thinking that, if he appears confident, the meeting will go well. He selects the best photo: one in which his eyes are neither closed nor so wide open that he looks stoned. He taps 'send', and tucks the phone into his jacket pocket. "I'm ready."

It's clear that Sutton would like to accompany them downstairs, perhaps even follow them out to the car park and watch them drive away. It can't be easy to turn over his case to two detectives he only met yesterday. To his credit, he only goes as far as the hallway.

Once inside the lift, James leans back against the wall and closes his eyes.

"It'll be all right," Lewis says quietly. "Once you're there and talking to the bugger, you won't have time to be nervous."

"If you say so, sir."

"I do say so. And now... I think you need to start as you mean to go on."

The lift chimes, and the doors part. Right. Now. James straightens, inhaling deeply as he does so. He strides into the lobby. "Lewis, fetch the car. I've a luncheon engagement at the Silver Swan."

"Yes, sir. Right away."

* * *

They don't talk in the car. Lewis-his-driver has nothing to say about his employer's destination; Lewis-his-governor has already said everything that needs saying. James resists the temptation to mentally review any of the case material. Instead, he gazes out the windows, trying to see Oxford through Edward Latham's eyes.

The traffic isn't bad for a weekday afternoon, and before James knows it, the Jag is entering the car park of the Silver Swan. Lewis pulls up to the pathway leading to the beer garden. James gets out, then leans into the still-open door. "I may be some time. After you park the car, come down and have a pint."

"Thank you, sir. That's kind of you."

It's an unnecessary conversation. They've already decided what to do, and there's no one nearby to overhear them. Only... Sutton had emphasised what James already knew from other undercover assignments: "Once the op's begun, you are to be in character every bloody moment, whether you're with the suspect or all alone in the loo."

Sir Edward Latham shuts the door of his Jaguar and strides towards the Silver Swan.


	2. Chapter 2

To get to the front door of the pub, he has to walk through the beer garden. A movement on his far left catches his eye: a man sitting at one of the further tables is raising his hand. Signalling a barmaid? Flagging down a friend? Could be either, except that the man is looking straight at him... and smiling. James raises his right hand in acknowledgement, and walks towards the man at the same steady pace. _Don't rush. It makes you look anxious._ "Mr Challoner?"

"Sir Edward... A pleasure to meet you at last." They exchange handshakes and meaningless pleasantries. "I took the liberty of ordering for us," Challoner says as a waiter delivers two glasses of white wine and a cheese plate.

James takes a sip of his wine, which proves to be a better-than-average chardonnay.

"I appreciate you being willing to meet me here, Sir Edward."

"Oh, it's not far, and it's a pleasant drive." James studies the cheese, and spears a piece of Red Leicester.

"I meant here in the lair of the enemy," Challoner says.

He chuckles. "Hardly that. Except during the Boat Race, perhaps."

"Do you row?"

"I did at school, a bit. At university, I didn't have time for messing about in boats."

Challoner asks another question about Cambridge. And another, and another, always in an amiable voice punctuated with smiles. Perhaps only someone who's spent considerable time in a police interview room would recognise this as an interrogation. James is glad that Winthorpe didn't mention his college (Peterhouse) in any of his emails. It leaves him free to make Sir Edward a graduate of his own college, Magdalene. The Pepys Library at Magdalene, he tells Challoner, kindled his fascination with incunabula. Caxton, Pynson and Wynkyn de Worde. Challoner doesn't take the bait. He's not ready to produce the goods just yet, so he continues to quiz James about Magdalene.

"I hope I'm not being too terribly inquisitive," Challoner says apologetically. "I'm a redbrick graduate. I received an excellent education, but I confess to a certain fascination with the ancient rites and rituals of Oxbridge colleges."

"Such as?"

"Oh, the May Balls, the formal dinners with students in gowns, and grace said in Latin. Is the Magdalene grace—" Abruptly, Challoner stiffens. "I told you to come alone, Latham."

James doesn't have to feign a bewildered look. "But I did come alone," he protests. He can't imagine that Sutton was fool enough to try and insert some plainclothes officers in the pub. Who could Challoner be speaking of? Some random punter who looks suspicious to him? He follows Challoner's gaze across the beer garden and sees... a man sat at one of the more distant tables, apparently absorbed by a pint and a newspaper. _Ohhh_... He turns back to Challoner. "That's just Lewis. My driver, Lewis."

"He looks like a policeman to me."

James can't think of anything to say to this, so he laughs, loud and hearty. This draws Lewis's attention. James raises a hand and beckons. It's not one of the hand signals they practiced to convey half a dozen meanings, it's just a 'come here' gesture.

Lewis blinks once, then rises, abandoning his drink and his paper. He walks briskly over to the table where James and Challoner are sitting. "Sir?"

"Challoner, this is my man, Lewis. Lewis, Mr Challoner thinks you look like a policeman."

Lewis chuckles. "Give over! Well, as you know, sir, I have been in the nick a time or two." His northern accent is as thick as James has ever heard it. His body language is relaxed: a loyal servant sharing a private joke.

James manages a rueful smile. "Yes, but that was long ago. He's a reformed character now," he says to Challoner. "Which is very fortunate, because I don't know what I would do without him. Driver, man about the house, gardener..." His voice drops, as if confiding a secret. "His vegetable marrows have won prizes at the village fete for the past three years running."

Challoner studies Lewis, as if appraising an item of dubious provenance. "Very well." Finally, he waves a dismissive hand. "You may go."

Lewis doesn't speak. He takes a step closer to James, and waits. That's entirely in character. A chauffeur doesn't take orders from a stranger when his employer is sitting right there. Only there's something else... James shifts position so that he can see Lewis's face without being obvious about it. Beneath the polite mask is a fierce protectiveness.

"You may go," Challoner repeats.

James bites back an angry response. The situation doesn't call for heated emotions. He opens his mouth and to his surprise, hears the dry, nuanced tones of twelve generations of power and privilege. "Challoner, I'll thank you not to give instructions to my man."

For just a moment, there's a crack in Challoner's composure. "Of course, Sir Edward. My apologies if I overstepped."

James turns to Lewis. "Go back to your lager and the racing results. Mr Challoner and I still have some things to discuss." He adds softly, "Don't fuss, Robbie."

Lewis gives a stiff nod, and walks away.

"Pleasant though our conversation has been, perhaps we should move on to the business at hand?" Challoner suggests. He places a large leather satchel on the vacant chair beside him and removes a cloth-wrapped bundle.  
James leans forward. "What have we here?" He slips on a pair of white cotton gloves and carefully unwraps the bundle. His pulse speeds up. The definition of 'handling stolen goods' is a very broad one. Even if Challoner doesn't make an explicit offer to sell, showing stolen items to a potential buyer is enough for an arrest. The problem is that the item must be proved to be stolen.  
The book is a hagiography of St Anthony, in Dutch. One full page is covered by a woodcut of the saint suspended in the air by monkey- and bird-headed demons who are beating him with clubs. "Charming. I don't recognise the artist, but the influence of Hieronymus Bosch is clear enough." He turns a few pages. "Pity it's so badly foxed," he says, pointing to the patches of brown spots that discolour the paper.  
Challoner sighs. "Yes, a pity." He rewraps the book and produces another. This one is a fragment of the Canterbury Tales. _The Tale of the Nonnes Preest._

James nods noncommittally. He's reviewed several international databases of stolen books, but contrary to what his governor may think, he hasn't got an eidetic memory. Memorising poetry is one thing; memorising endless lists is another. In order to arrest Challoner, he needs a reasonable suspicion that an arrestable offence has been committed.

_"It's not enough to say 'he's a dodgy-looking bloke and he showed me some old books,'" Sutton had explained. "You've got to say, 'He showed me a Latin psalm book which I had reason to believe was the one stolen from St Botolph's in Little Sodding.'"_

James pulls himself out of his reverie. Challoner is placing a large archival binder on the table, the sort that's used to hold individual leaves detached from their parent books. The page protectors are made of some clear, rigid plastic, hinged where they join the spine of the binder. "See if there's something here that strikes your fancy." He sips from his wine glass while watching James carefully.

The binder contains a hodgepodge of materials, ranging from Aristotle to a Papal bull. Following a handsome leaf from an illuminated book of hours, he finds a page from a Latin Vulgate Bible. Neatly penned red letters at the top of the page proclaim: _Iudicum_. Judges. He skims down the page, finding some familiar lines at 15:4. _Perrexitque et cepit trecentas vulpes caudasque earum iunxit ad caudas et faces ligavit in medio quas igne succendens_... The first letter of each verse has been rubricated—highlighted in red. A large capital P in blue begins chapter 15, and on the verso, a graceful red A decorates chapter 16. A few tiny motifs appear in the center between the two columns of text. One looks like a snail or perhaps a spiral; another, a four-pointed star. It's attractive enough, but compared to fully illuminated manuscripts, it's not much. Only there's something not quite right about this manuscript. The margins are too even. It's not a bloody manuscript. It's a printed leaf with hand-drawn rubrications and ornaments. Which means...

His next thought is... not a coherent thought at all, because that can't be what he thinks it is. James pulls the binder closer and bends over the page. Silently, he counts. 42. _Christ!_ It may not be the answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, but 42 _is_ the number of lines in a Gutenberg Bible. He mentally reviews what he knows. There are 49 surviving copies out of the 180 that were printed; 8 of them are in the UK. At least two partial volumes were broken into fragments in the early 20th century for individual sale. There are a few hundred Gutenberg leaves out there. Whenever one comes on the market, it sells for thousands of pounds.

He looks up to see Challoner smiling at him. "Impressive, isn't it?"

"If it's real, yes."

Challoner stiffens. "Are you—"

"No need to get in a lather," James drawls. "You wouldn't be the first dealer to be deceived by a forger."

"This is not forged. I have had a spectroscopic analysis of the ink performed by a reputable laboratory. As for the paper..." Challoner tugs on the page protector, which pulls free of its hinge. He holds it up so that the sun shining behind it highlights a watermark in the shape of an ox head. "I can assure you with all confidence that this leaf came out of the workshop of Johannes Gutenberg in Mainz."

"Well..." James says reluctantly. He frowns, because it's the easiest way to hide a smile. Challoner's statement makes this an arrestable offence. Any reasonable person would assume that a Gutenberg leaf sold under these circumstances is stolen.

James rubs his thumb back and forth across the right side of his jaw in an apparent gesture of indecision. He doesn't look to see if Lewis is watching because he knows he is, just as he knows that Lewis is slipping a hand inside his jacket pocket to press a pre-programmed key on a special mobile phone.

"Shall we discuss price?" Challoner throws out a number that makes James want to wince, but Sir Edward would regard as next to nothing. More importantly, it's much less than a Gutenberg leaf would sell for at auction.

They haggle. The selling price will have no bearing on the charges. It's just part of the charade, and a way to keep Challoner distracted while the arrest team closes in.

"Do you have the money with you, Sir Edward?"

"With me, yes, but not on me. The bulk of it is in the boot of my car. We can walk up together, if you like."

Just then, a pair of junior officers come into sight. They're in plainclothes, but they may as well have 'police' tattooed on their foreheads. Challoner is out of his seat and sprinting for the car park before James can blink. James runs after him, his long legs closing the distance between them. "No... you... don't," he huffs, and launches himself towards Challoner. They go down in a tangle of flailing limbs. James grabs for the other man's wrists, trying to pull them into the right position to be handcuffed.

"Just hold him down. I've got me cuffs." It's Lewis, of course, matching action to word. The handcuffs click shut just as a small army of PCs encircle them.

James looks up at his governor. "Sir, do you want to?"

"Nah. You caught him, you caution him."

"Hugo Challoner, I'm arresting you on suspicion of handling stolen goods. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"

Challoner's reply is short, furious, and profane.

"That's quite enough of that," Lewis says calmly. "We'll tell him again in interview." He gestures at the two nearest PCs. "Take him in."

James scrambles to his feet. "The evidence!"

"Kilminster's watching it, sir," DC Jagdesh Singh says. When James jogs back, he finds DC Barbara Kilminster standing beside the table, her cool professional stare keeping pub staff and curious punters at a distance. Everything is exactly where it was. Kilminster widens her eyes as she takes in James's outfit, from the gleaming shoes to the silk tie, but wisely keeps her gob shut.

He slings the leather satchel over his left shoulder and tucks the binder under his right arm. Returning to the grassy slope below the car park, he finds Sutton standing beside Lewis. "Hathaway! What have you got for me?"

"Well, sir, there's a little of this and a little of that, but I'd say that the special of the day is..." He opens the binder and flips to the final item.

"Christ on the fucking cross," Sutton says with mingled disbelief and awe. "A Gutenberg leaf."

Lewis gives him an approving smile. "Well done, James. Very well done."

They head for their cars. Sutton looks longingly at the binder that James carries, but he knows better than to muddle the chain of evidence. The books and leaves will be handed over to Sutton, as an official representative of the Met, at the nick.

Lewis pats the steering wheel of the Jag lovingly. "I reckon I got the fun part of this assignment."

"I'm glad you found it entertaining, sir."

"Wish I could have seen the rest of the show. You ever decide police work isn't for you, I expect you could make a career for yourself in the West End."

"Very droll, sir."

"I mean it. When you beckoned me over, that was a nice bit of improvisation. Vegetable marrows!" Lewis chuckles.

"You gave a BAFTA-worthy performance yourself, sir. I did not expect to find a felonious Jeeves in my employ."

"Not my first time undercover," Lewis reminds him. "But you...when you told Challoner not to give me orders, you were... intimidating. I could see that Challoner felt it. Hell, I felt it meself. Were you thinking about some stuck-up git you knew at school? Because there was something very real about that bit."

He hesitates, but Lewis, of all people, deserves the truth. "Augustus Mortmaigne. This may be the one favour he has ever done for me."

Lewis nods. No doubt his mind is full of questions that he will not ask. "Before you called me over, you laughed out loud. What was that about?"

"I knew that I had come alone. I knew it as a fact. So when I saw you..." He's not sure how to explain.

"I suppose you were very deep into your role. To the posh sort like you were pretending to be, servants are like furniture. Not noticed until they're needed, yeah?" He sounds amused.

"Something like, that, yes." It isn't really a lie. The wealthy and privileged are often oblivious to those who serve them. That's what Challoner must have assumed, that Sir Edward could bring his driver along and still consider himself alone. The truth is much more complicated. In the past four years, Lewis has somehow become part of him, or perhaps the other way round. They are a unit. Lewis-and-Hathaway. Maybe it's presumptuous of him, but sometimes James suspects that Lewis feels the same way. In the morning after the nightmare at Crevecoeur, Lewis had referred to the two of them as a 'not-bad detective'.

"All right, John Gielgud, let's be going. We've got front row seats for the next act."

* * *

First there's an entre'acte in Innocent's office with the Chief Super and DCI Sutton. James narrates his conversation with Challoner, then displays the evidence, which he formally transfers to Sutton.

Innocent smiles at her officers. "Excellent result, gentlemen."

Sutton nods."I'm sure my superiors will send an official letter of commendation, ma'am, but in the meantime, I want to thank your department for exemplary cooperation, and especially for the assistance of DI Lewis and DS Hathaway." He looks at James. "If you ever get a whim for a change, Hathaway, we could use someone with your skills."

Innocent's smile dims by a few hundred watts. "The Met can best express its gratitude by not stealing one of my best officers."

"Sorry, ma'am," Sutton replies, looking not at all abashed. "But I'd like to borrow DS Hathaway for a little while longer, for the preliminary interview with Challoner."

"Of course. I'd like to watch that myself."

* * *

By design, the interview is in progress when James walks in. Sutton says to the recorder, "Detective Sergeant James Hathaway is entering the room."

Challoner looks up at him. "I thought you were a nark, but you're a fucking copper?"

James leans forward. "That's what it says on my warrant card, Alf." He turns to Sutton. "The fingerprint results came back. Meet Alfred Higgs of Slough."

"Really?" Sutton raises his brows, as if he hadn't known this and more before the interview began.

"Alf told me that he's a red brick graduate, but I don't see any mention of university in his record. He did spend a few years at HMP Wormwood Scrubs, which is certainly red brick, and I daresay his time there was educational."

"I'm sure it was," Sutton replies. "When you scratch one of these so-called posh criminals, half the time we find he's only a jumped-up street rat."

"Quite right." Based on Sutton's instructions, James has partially resumed the Sir Edward persona. Not entirely, because the suspect knows his real name, knows that he isn't a baronet. Just emphasising the aspects of his own background and personality that went into the role: posh, overeducated, sarcastic. It's clear that Higgs chose this sort of crime partly because it allowed him to play at being a nob—and to put one over the real nobs. Having a nob of a policeman looming over him must be unsettling.

The rest of the interview is long and tedious and full of circular discussions as Higgs tries to talk his way out of the charges, but in the end Sutton seems quite sure that they're going to stick. In the hallway, afterwards, he tells Lewis and Hathaway, "This is just the beginning. Once I get him back to London, we'll be digging into the other cases." The two Oxfordshire detectives wish him luck. "And Hathaway—I meant what I said. If you're interested, we'll find a place for you."

James sees his governor's eyes turn steely, and hastily replies, "Very kind of you, sir, but I'm very content in my current position."

Sutton nods. "Then I'll see you both in London when Higgs comes to trial. When that's over, DI Winthorpe and I will shout you a couple of rounds. Since CPS moves at the speed of an arthritic snail, Winthorpe should have got over his spottiness by then."

They laugh, as they're meant to, and Sutton departs.

"What now, sir? Back to the Clarke reports?" Tim Clarke was the unfortunate dishwasher in a Binsey restaurant who got on the wrong side of a meat cleaver wielded by a very drunk and very jealous Jake Husselbee.

Lewis looks at his watch. "Nah. Let's just do up a list of the interviews for tomorrow."

"As you say, sir."

His governor is silent until they reach their shared office. "How are you doing, James?"

"Me, sir? I'm fine." It's mostly true. "Very glad to be wearing my own clothes again. When I tackled Higgs, I was worried that, if I damaged the suit, they'd be docking my pay for the next six months."

As intended, Lewis chuckles. "And who is 'they'? You don't work for the Met, and if they had the nerve to send a bill, Innocent would bin it."

By the time the list of interviews is complete, it's nearly 6:00. "I reckon we can knock off now," Lewis declares. "Takeaway at yours?"

"Erm... yes, thanks."

Within 30 minutes they're loading carrier bags into Lewis's Vectra, and the car fills with the enticing scents of chicken curry and lamb bhuna. Lewis turns the engine on, but doesn't pull out of the parking spot. "Anything else we need, James?"

"Not that I can think of, sir. Did you want to visit the off-licence?"

"You should have a few bottles of Bridge left in your kitchen, unless you drank them as a nightcap after I left?"

"I did not, sir."

Lewis turns to face him. "You don't have to 'sir' me every other sentence, like a green constable just out of uniform. Or are you taking the piss?"

Has he been doing that? James feels his face redden. "Sorry, I wasn't aware of it. I suppose I was trying to get Edward Latham out of my head."

"Undercover work can do that to you. Could be worse. I spent a week—this was back in Newcastle, when I was working vice—as an errand boy for a suspected drug dealer. I was sleeping in a nasty dosshouse, and I was actually glad of that, because 'Tommy McTaggart' was not a bloke that I wanted to bring home to Val."

"I suppose that, compared to that, a few hours with Sir Edward isn't so bad."

"He's got his good points, I reckon. He was very complimentary about me vegetable marrows." Lewis studies him and cocks his head, thinking. "But there's something else about him that's got your knickers in a twist."

_He mustn't know!_ "Nothing important."

"Let me be the judge of that." When James remains silent, Lewis frowns. "James, if you have a problem with working undercover, that's something I need to know, both as your governor and as your friend."

"It's not a problem."

"I know you've been undercover before. Three times, when you were Knox's bagman. Any of those cases give you trouble?" James shakes his head. "What was different about this one? I need you to tell me, James."

"The others were more dress-up than roleplay." He sighs. "All I had to do was put on the clothing they gave me—glitzy clubwear or ragged jeans—and wait for someone to offer me drugs. I didn't have a character with a back story. In one case, I didn't even have a name. For this, I had to create a persona."

"Winthorpe did most of the work for you."

"Yes and no. He wrote Sir Edward's CV, but making him real was down to me. I thought it would be easy enough to take bits and pieces of people I'd known at school, at university, even here in Oxford."

"And Mortmaigne. Was that—?"

"No, sir." James curses silently, but Lewis doesn't react to the honorific. "It was an unpleasant surprise to hear his voice coming out of my mouth, but it was just the one time." Unpleasant or not, it would have been overkill to use a marquess as the basis for a pompous young baronet. "The hardest thing about being Sir Edward was seeing how much of him came from me."

"You're talking about something other than Greek and Latin and a posh accent."

"You weren't there for most of the conversation. Sir Edward Latham isn't just stuck-up and greedy. He's disturbingly self-centred. I know I have a deserved reputation as a smartarse." He shrugs. "Pride has always been my besetting sin. The thing is, Sir Edward is contemptuous of everyone he regards as beneath him. And I can't help but wonder..."

"How much of that is you and how much is just make-believe?" James nods. "I can understand that. One of the reasons I didn't want to bring Tommy McTaggart home is I didn't want Val to see how much of me was in the nasty bugger."

James stares. "You're kidding."

"Honour bright. There was anger and violence and greed and cruelty. Every ugly thought and impulse that Robbie Lewis kept bottled up, Tommy let out to play. Halfway through the week, I started wondering if I was a monster in waiting, if one day something would snap and Val would see the real me. Spent a sleepless night wondering if I ought to offer her a divorce before it was too late."

James gawks. "You didn't."

"Didn't say it. Thought about it, though. We didn't have the kids yet. I was very young and very stupid."

"How on Earth did you get past it?" he asks.

"Val. When the case was over, I came home, and spent nearly a week in a blue funk before she pushed me to talk about it. So I told her, and held my breath, waiting to see if she'd be horrified or frightened or what, and she laughed. Told me I was a right git, but she still loved me."

James's spiritual advisor at the seminary would have chided him for possessing an overly scrupulous conscience. He likes Valerie Lewis's response better, and he appreciates the anecdote for the gift that it is. "So you mean I'm a right git, but you still love me too, sir?"

"Smartarse," Lewis grumbles. "Now, can we get moving before the curry gets cold?"

James smiles, and intones solemnly, "Home, Lewis."

-THE END -


End file.
